


"But I have promises to keep,"

by LadyCorvidae



Series: "But I have promises to keep..." [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hinted-at violence, More Fluff, Off-Screen Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:25:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCorvidae/pseuds/LadyCorvidae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his time on the run, Sherlock has a few moments for some introspection. Although he's not quite certain of what he finds when he turns his thoughts to deduce himself. Part 2 of the "But I have promises to keep..." series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"But I have promises to keep,"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Doctor WTF (Mimzy)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Doctor+WTF+%28Mimzy%29).



> Again, dedicated to my friend Fay/Doctor WTF. The title is, once more, taken from the poem "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost. 
> 
> I do not own Sherlock or any other characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or Moffat and Gatiss.

Sherlock had been ‘dead’ for nearly a year and a half now. The Fall from the top of St. Bartholomew’s Pathology building was an excellent fake- it went off without a hitch. And all with the help of one person. His pathologist, Molly Hooper. She had seen right through him the day before it happened, deducing him with a skill and a quality that, had he not been so shaken, he would have admired. She had said that he looked sad when John wasn’t looking (or something to that effect) and that he should lie- saying he was okay when he wasn’t. He had remarked that she could see him and then she said something that had cut him to the core.

_“I don’t count.”_

The way she had said it, soft and sweet and utterly sure and resigned of that statement, caused that guilt to well up in his chest. Guilt and now, shame; both uncomfortable to him and usually absent. But being around John had changed him, whether he wanted it or not. The former army doctor had made him more human, given him more insight as to how the ordinary people of the world worked and saw and felt things. Sentiment- so dull and so useless, so damnably tangled up with everything else that it slowed everything down. The logic that he held so highly was mired in it. So he sought her help and she had given it willingly- taking the time to find a cadaver that matched him enough, getting blood packs ready, and extract of rhododendran ponticum, an herbal extract that slows down the vital signs to the point where it mimics death. A useful tip that he had picked up from the case with the missing children. He had met Moriarty on the roof and watched the madman kill himself. And then- he had left his ‘note’ with John and made the jump. He had taken the extract about a minute before he had climbed the rooftop and was beginning to feel the effects as he threw the phone behind him. Everything had gone perfectly and thus Sherlock had ‘died’. 

Well, not really. He had come to nearly three hours later, in Molly’s flat on her manky, uncomfortable sofa. Her eyes were red and watery and her limbs were trembling with exhaustion. He sat up, wincing. Even though the plan had gone off without a hitch, he had managed to bang his head hard on the way down. He idly listed off the symptoms of a concussion and she had taken care of him. He had tried to thank her, but she shook her head. “I wanted to help,” she croaked, her voice hoarse. She stayed up for nearly three more hours before she nearly passed out. He caught her as she crumpled to the ground and somehow managed to guide her into her own bed, gently tucking her under the covers. He stayed with her for nearly three weeks before he left in the dead of night. He didn’t want to say goodbye- more tears, more sentiment that he didn’t need. Now he was half the world away- in South America, chasing a lead. He had Mycroft keep tabs on everyone he was attached to. John and Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. And Molly. He could barely hear the smirk in his brother’s voice when he was filling him in on the doings of the small pathologist, but it was there. Sherlock wanted to scowl, but didn’t have the energy. He was too busy stamping out the spiders in Moriarty’s extensive criminal web. It spanned continents, and it would take some time before the web was destroyed and the criminals inhabiting it were all either in proper custody or dead.  
More and more often, it seemed, he was thinking on London and the people there that he missed. He knew it was getting bad when he was even pining for Anderson’s stupidity. He snorted in disgust and shook his head. He missed John’s companionship, Mrs. Hudson’s tea and biscuits, Lestrade’s cases (and dry wit). He even missed Mycroft’s meddling. And he missed Molly. He didn’t even know what he missed about her; maybe her pliant nature- no that wasn’t it. It wasn’t her conversation, either. Then, with a start, he realized just what it was, and he nearly groaned. Her smile. He missed the soft, shy smile she often wore around him. He cursed roundly under his breath. He was losing his touch, spending too much time in deep thought, and that was leading to sentiment. He shook himself angrily and stormed away from the storefront he was standing in front of. He had a criminal to catch.

Hours later, limping back to the little shack on the edge of town that he was calling ‘home’ for the time being, he thought on something that she had asked of him before he left. “Stay safe, would you? There are people waiting for you to come home,” she said, fingers fidgeting with each other. All of two people knew he was still alive- his older brother and his pathologist. But for some reason, he didn’t want to let her down, even though his safety was never much of a concern to him. He sighed. He had made a promise though. He had told her that he would, and he, for some reason unknown to even himself, wanted to keep it. She had looked sad when she said it, and he knew that he would make her even more sad when she found out (if she found out, but when was more likely) that he had died for real. Mycroft would tell her- he was a git like that. But she would want to know. The thought of her, broken over him; that unsettled him. Even though he’d seen it before in the watery eyes and hoarse voice in the aftermath of the Fall. It still caused that pang of guilt to go through him, and he hated it.

But as much as he hated it, he would keep himself safe. He had to get back home after all. To London- to John and his companionship. To Mrs. Hudson’s tea and biscuits. To Lestrade’s dry wit and cases. To Mycroft’s meddling. To Anderson’s stupidity (that he would gleefully point out to every person in the surrounding area). To Molly and her soft, shy smile. After all, he had told her that he needed her. But what was being made increasingly clear was just how much he needed her, and not just for body parts and morgue access. He had promised her that he would make it back, and he would keep that promise. His mind made up, he dressed his wounds and went out into the night once more; there was another lead that the first criminal had given him right before he’d dispatched him- one more spider to stamp out. One more mile down. One step closer to keeping that promise.


End file.
